


What They Make You Give

by MilesHibernus



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: 5+1, Angst, Black Empire AU, CW: Drowning, Fairshaw, Fanart, Has art!, Horrific Vision of Stormwind, M/M, Mathias Shaw/Edwin Van Cleef mentioned, Not A Happy Ending, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:46:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27605792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilesHibernus/pseuds/MilesHibernus
Summary: In the Horrific Vision of Stormwind, Shaw is the Old Town miniboss.  How the heck did that happen?-or-Five things Mathias Shaw gave up for Stormwind, and one he couldn't.
Relationships: Flynn Fairwind/Mathias Shaw
Comments: 11
Kudos: 55





	1. Chapter 1

Mathias had not asked to hold Gran’s hand, because he was big enough that he didn’t need to hold hands; he was big enough to stay with her on his own. It wasn’t always easy, because Gran was taller than him and crowds seemed to part for her and then immediately close up again, but he didn’t want the sigh and headshake that would come with the answer. Besides, the answer would be _no_.

Gran paused to let a group of soldiers on horseback go past, allowing Mathias to catch up with her. She didn’t glance at him, but he knew she knew exactly how far behind he’d been - not very, this time.

The soldiers, the knights, rode by with their helms off, singing, “ _I was born on the list field, I was raised in the war, and one day you did make me a knight_ …” The woman in the lead glanced down and caught Mathias’s eye, and smiled.

“Gran,” said Mathias.

“What?”

“When I grow up, I’m going to be a knight.”

Gran sighed, and shook her head. “No, Mathias. You’re not.”

* * *

“Mattie,” said Rogar, his voice full of annoyance, “you can be a good time, and Light knows you’re a good lay, but I’m tired of waiting around for you.” He sighed, slumping back in his chair and crossing his arms. Around them the buzz of the tavern crowd went on undisturbed. “If you’d made it on time tonight, we could have talked, but you didn’t.”

“You were _testing_ me?” Mathias demanded.

Rogar shook his head and sighed again. Even in the low light his hair gleamed gold. “Not on purpose. But I had almost two hours to myself to think. _This time._ ”

Mathias opened his mouth. Closed it again. He’d learned how to control his physical reactions to emotion; he’d had to. So his fingers didn’t shake as he pulled open his purse to extract coins from it. He didn’t bother to check how much they were before he slapped them down onto the table beneath his palm. “For your time,” he said, letting a hint of a snarl color the words.

Rogar looked down, and back up. Mathias waited. His lover - former lover - wasn’t always the quickest off the mark, but he generally got there. After a moment Rogar’s jaw set. “ _Fuck_ you, Mathias,” he said between his teeth.

“Not anymore,” Mathias said, and turned his back.

* * *

Mathias made sure to wait until the rancher had departed, off to town, before he knocked on the door. He took three steps back, deliberately out of arm’s reach.

“Just a moment,” a woman called from inside. “If you’re looking for Ned, he’s gone to -” She swung the door open, a towel still clutched in one hand, and her smile froze on her face. “Mathias.”

He stayed where he was, and said, “Sharrin.”

Sharrin stepped out of the house and pulled the door shut behind her. “What in the name of the seven hells are you doing here?”

“I found out,” Mathias said.

“Found out what?”

“About my daughter.”

Sharrin nodded, and said evenly, “She’s not your daughter.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Mathias snapped, and Sharrin’s chin jerked up.

“I’m not _lying_. She was born because you and I fucked, but that doesn’t make her your daughter, and it doesn’t make you her father. Fathers don’t wait until you’re four to say hello.”

Mathias took a firmer grip on his temper and said, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Sharrin said wearily, “I tried, Mathias. The last time we saw each other, don’t you remember? I said I had something important to tell you, and you asked me if it could wait until you were back from your trip. It might be only two months, you said.”

It had been, Mathias thought distantly, three and a half.

“I’m not angry,” Sharrin went on. “I was at first, but I’m not anymore. I was less important to you than - than whatever you do on your trips, and that’s your problem, not mine.”

They stood silent for a moment, a tiny dust devil dancing between them, born of the afternoon breeze. “What do you want from me?” Mathias asked at last.

“I don’t need anything from you, and neither does she. Go back to Stormwind. Forget we exist.” She turned back to the door. With her hand on the latch she glanced over her shoulder and said, “Light bless you, Mathias.”

He couldn’t make himself move in the direction of his tethered horse until she’d slipped inside and shut the door.

* * *

The hunter was at least not one of the ones who refused to be parted from her beasts. Mathias didn’t think he could have managed this conversation with a wolf scratching its ear in the corner or a panther stretching and yawning under his desk. “My agent will meet you in Moonbrook in three days to take you to the mine entrance,” he said.

“Will your agent be accompanying us?” the hunter asked. Her Darnassian accent was nearly nonexistent, far too eroded for him to even venture a guess at which part of the Great Tree she’d grown up in. Mathias supposed that when you lived for centuries, you had plenty of time to pick up second languages - or third, or fourth; this particular woman spoke six fluently, that he knew of.

“It’s your decision, but I can tell you they aren’t an agent I’d trust at my back in a fight.”

She nodded. “And I assume you’ll require proof.”

“The target wears a red kerchief,” Mathias said. “Bring it to me.”

One feathery green eyebrow went up. “That seems to be proof that’s easily faked.”

“I’ll recognize it.” _I gave it to him_. It had been a Winter Veil gift, and Edwin had kissed him with the snow glittering in his raven-black hair.

She shrugged, as gracefully as elves did everything; the green-enameled links of her mail slid over each other with a faint, musical chiming. “As you like, Master Shaw. It should be no more than a week.”

“Thank you. My assistant will see you out.”

When she had gone, Mathias sat at his desk and stared unseeing at its surface.

* * *

Flynn twitched a paper out of the irregular pile Mathias was trying to straighten and held it up. “These are pretty good,” he said.

Mathias looked up at him and said, “No, they’re not.” He’d discovered himself absently drawing again, though at least this time it was on a piece of paper he could afford to discard without having to copy it first.

“Weeell,” said Flynn, drawing the word out to an absurd degree, and Mathias stopped moving so he could take in the display more easily. “No, they’re not, but I can see that they could be, if you worked at it.”

“How do you know anything about art?”

“I’m hurt,” said Flynn cheerfully. “You’d be amazed at some of the things you have to learn to be a successful pirate.”

“You weren’t successful,” Mathias pointed out.

“No, because I was busy learning about art. Ah- _ha_! That was a smile, I saw it!”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not ridiculous, mate, I’m a connoisseur. I collect your smiles like a siren collects broken hearts and I can spot one at a cable-length.” Flynn grinned at him, leaning hip-shot on the desk, and Mathias remembered with a delicious shock that he didn’t need to restrain himself anymore. At least, not on Flynn’s behalf; he glanced at the door to be sure it was locked, rounded his desk, took Flynn’s face in his hands, and kissed him. Not for very long, though, since it _was_ his office and the locked door was hardly the only way in.

When they parted, Flynn didn’t release his grip on Mathias’s waist. “Seriously though, why didn’t you ever find someone to teach you to draw?”

Mathias snorted. “It wasn’t encouraged. My grandmother thought it was frivolous.”

Flynn shook his head and said, “I’ve seen you whittling, don’t bird figurines count as frivolous?”

“Whittling involves a knife. Good for my control.”

“Tidemother’s _tits_ , the more I hear about your gran the less I like her,” said Flynn, rolling his eyes.

“She didn’t set out to be liked,” Mathias told him.

“I’d never have guessed,” Flynn drawled, and kissed him again.

* * *

The Keep was sleeping when Mathias reached it, but that was hardly an impediment; he knew every secret passage, hidden door, and disused service corridor in the place. Anduin, fortunately, was still awake, writing by the light of the candles he preferred to the harsher magic lamps. He noticed immediately when Mathias pushed open the servants’ door, and his response was to summon his holy shield and reach for a knife - or at least a letter opener, but it wouldn’t be any fun to get between the ribs regardless. Mathias was, somewhere far in the back of his mind, gratified to see the young king developing a healthy degree of caution.

Mathias spoke a code word; Anduin gave one of the three possible replies; Mathias ended the sequence with one of three again, and Anduin mostly relaxed. “Shaw. You’re not due back for days. It was a trap?”

“It was a trap,” Mathias said. “There was nothing there that could help us against the Black Empire.”

Anduin’s shoulders sagged minutely. “Well, we had to check. I’m sure something will come up,” he said. “My thanks to you and Captain Fairwind.”

Mathias nodded, not trusting himself to speak, but something must have shown on his face; Anduin’s brow furrowed. “Where is Captain Fairwind?”

“He’s -” Mathias began, but the word choked him and he was overcome by memory, so vivid it might as well have been happening again: kneeling on the grating, fingers thrust between the bars, Flynn stretching up as far as he could, the water up to his knees and climbing fast. Their fingertips had brushed. Flynn saying, _Go, Mathias, I don’t want you to see this. I love you_. And he hadn’t been lying, hoping to spare Mathias the sight; Flynn never could lie to him. So Mathias had stood, and turned away, and gone, and left Flynn to die alone.

“Shaw - Shaw - _Mathias_!” Anduin’s voice yanked him back to the room in Stormwind Keep, where he discovered he was leaning on his hands on the king’s desk, gasping for breath. He clamped his mouth shut and forced his breathing back into rhythm. Anduin waited patiently.

“He’s dead,” Mathias said at last. “We killed the cultists, but on our way out we triggered a trap. I was overconfident, moving us too fast, and Flynn paid for it.”

Anduin’s face passed through shock and sadness - he’d liked Flynn, if for no other reason than that the man had never taken it too seriously that Anduin was the High King - and settled into pity, and Mathias had to look away. He didn’t deserve to be pitied. “It’s not your fault,” said Anduin gently.

“Don’t.”

Anduin took a deep breath and said, “I think you need some rest. Go home - unless you’d like to stay in the Keep for the night?” Mathias shook his head. “All right. Home and sleep, and you can give me a more detailed report in a day or two.”

“Your Majesty -”

“That’s an order, Master Shaw. Do you need an escort?”

“No, I - no. I’ll be fine.” Anduin looked dubious, but not dubious enough to push the point.

* * *

Back on the street, Mathias walked slowly, in no hurry to return to a bed that he’d have to occupy alone. Perhaps he should have taken a room in the Keep after all; he’d never slept with...company there. But he kept on.

Without really considering it, he did not turn into Old Town; instead he skirted the Dwarven District, crossed Cathedral Square, and made his way down the broad stone steps towards the harbor. Even at this hour there were a few guards scattered about the piers, but none of them stopped him; he wasn’t causing any trouble. He kept going, past the end of the docks, picking his way along the narrow strip of land between the curling cliff that formed one protective arm of the bay and the water itself. Whispers ran through his head, _my fault it’ **s** my fa **ul** t h **e** ’s de **ad a** nd **it** ’s **your fa** ul **t a s** acrif **ice for Storm** wi **nd you’ve sa** cr **ificed ever** y go **od thing you’ve ever had for Stormwind**_.

“For my duty,” Mathias said aloud.

_**What good is duty?** _

“It’s what I have left.” He’d reached the point, where a tiny beach, no larger than a mattress, lay between the rock and the water. He sat. “It’s always been enough.”

_**Not anymore.** _

“Not anymore,” he agreed. The moonlight gleamed on something embedded in the sand, in the very edge of the water as the land rose away from it: a shell, the same shape as the one Flynn wore, _had worn_ , as a necklace. A good luck charm, he’d always said. Mathias leaned forward, reached out. His fingers touched the water.

 **YOU ARE THE EYE OF STORMWIND** , said a voice. It came from everywhere and nowhere and Mathias didn’t flinch because there was nowhere to flinch _to_ ; he knew his instinctive reach for his daggers was futile even as he performed it. **GIVE IT TO ME. MY EMPIRE COMES.**

“No,” Mathias said. Around him the night changed, no longer clear and moonlit but darkness thick as fog, pierced by glowing amber orbs that illuminated nothing but themselves. He felt as if he were floating, unmoored.

 **GIVE IT TO ME, OR DIE**.

“Kill me then.”

Part of the darkness solidified into a spearpoint and thrust itself towards him. Mathias didn’t close his eyes. The point drove at his heart - and stopped, a hair’s breadth from touching his shirt. **YOU DO NOT FEAR DEATH**.

“Not anymore,” Mathias repeated.

The pause that followed felt full of thought. Mathias waited through it because he had no choice; there was nowhere he could go, nothing he could do, and the orbs were eyes that held him pinned in their gaze.

**WHAT DO YOU WANT?**

“Nothing you can give me,” Mathias said, and the voice laughed; he dropped his daggers to clap his hands over his ears but it didn’t help. Its laughter was blurring. Booms, then titters. The short barks Flynn had given at Mathias’ face when he’d opened the box with the stuffed elekk in it. The chuckles of a warm bed before dawn. Mathias couldn’t stop hearing them all.

 **I SEE** **IT NOW** , it said, a small eternity later. **I SEE WHAT YOU WANT. HE DIED IN MY REALM**.

It had been seawater that had filled the chamber, but that hardly mattered. “The operative word is ‘died’,” Mathias said.

It couldn’t be said that Flynn appeared; one moment he was not there and had never been, and the next he was there and had always been. His eyes were open, moving, and when he saw Mathias his face lit with joy. He spoke, but Mathias couldn’t hear him. **GIVE STORMWIND TO ME, AND I WILL GIVE HIM TO YOU. REFUSE ME, AND YOU WILL WATCH HIM DIE**.

Flynn convulsed, screaming, Mathias could _see_ that he was screaming. “No!” he shouted. Flynn went limp.

 **GIVE ME STORMWIND** , said the voice, **OR IT WILL TAKE A VERY LONG TIME FOR HIM TO DIE**.

“I can’t,” Mathias said. Flynn screamed again. “I _can’t_.” Again, and this time Mathias could hear it.

 **GIVE ME STORMWIND**.

“I -”

“Mattie, please,” Flynn said, only a whisper.

The moment hung in the balance.

“What do I need to do?” Mathias asked.

**INVITE ME IN, AND KNOW THE TRUTH.**

Mathias reached for Flynn, and Flynn reached back, and their fingertips brushed.

“Come in,” Mathias said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am aware that you're sent into the Deadmines for Van Cleef's head, not his scarf, and also that Shaw doesn't give you the quest directly. You whippersnappers get off my lawn.
> 
> The events of [Terror by Torchlight](https://worldofwarcraft.com/en-us/story/short-story/terror-by-torchlight), which ends with Shaw inviting Flynn on a world tour of dangerous artifacts to make sure they're still under wraps, don't occur until after N'Zoth's defeat, so we're going to say that the trip in this story was to a specific place that was rumored to house a specific useful item.
> 
> Last but not least, ["Born on the List Field"](https://www.outlands.org/forum/songs/103-i-was-born-on-the-listfield-ivar-battleskald) is a song by the late lamented Ivar Battleskald.
> 
> The next chapter is an illustration of _that_ scene, so if you don't feel like having your heart carved out don't look!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amazing, fantastic, fabulous art by the wonderful [monoidea](https://monoidea.tumblr.com/), who draws lovely pictures and takes commissions!


End file.
